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Pearlsha Abubakar-Quebral

I first became familiar with the Islamic principle of “barakat” when my Aba (father), the late Hashim Rasul Abubakar, asked me to work with him on a Powerpoint presentation for an international group of development workers visiting Manila in 2007. The group wanted to hear other perspectives on what makes social development sustainable.

The Western model of development prides itself on democracy, open-mindedness, visionary leadership, and courage of the pioneer, which is why it should dovetail perfectly with the requirements of barakat. After 911, it had become particularly hard for the West to see anything good in Islamic culture. Together, my father and I expounded on the meaning of “barakat” and attempted to articulate it to a secular audience, in a small effort to build sturdier, more lasting foundations in place of the physical structures that had come apart after 911.

What is Barakat? “Barakat” in Arabic is the plural form of “blessing.” Aba extended the definition to mean a principle whereby “rahman” or grace is the singular element that fuels social change. It is literally singular in that “rahman” is bestowed upon a human being by a combination of fortuitous personal and sociopolitical circumstances. Having become extraordinary by acquiring this “rahman” or grace, this human being then moves to improves large swaths of human lives using their own personal means.

This main feature of barakat is controversial: an extraordinary human being favored by the universe to effect lasting change. It makes the 99% of us wince. It makes all the inequalities and inequities even more apparent and therefore painful to bear. Why can’t rahman be bestowed upon every single one of us?

If only we can ask Prophet Abraham, Moses, or Jesus Christ what they thought of their extraordinariness. But history did tell us how inconvenient it had been for them to be extraordinary during their lifetime. If they didn’t nearly drown in the Red Sea after barely escaping their hunters, they got crucified and were left on a hilltop to die.

Now that will make the 99% of us not only wince, but scream, twist and shout in agony as well. We don’t want any of this, after all.

In the province of Sulu in Muslim Philippines, where my father was born, extraordinary human beings were called tubuanan or magaagama, people or families with blood links to history and whom circumstances have installed in positions of wisdom, power and influence. Descendants of the Prophet Mohammed are considered as such. This concept is neither alien nor impractical to many cultures. Histories and herstories, oral and written, are full of kings, queens, shamans and healers whose powers did not come from excessive striving, but from being at the right place at the right time, with them possessing the necessary mental, social and spiritual faculties to effect meaningful change. Human design could only go so far – we cannot truly predict when the ocean swells will be at their highest point. Most of us only know that the ocean will heave at some point; but barakat allows the extraordinary person to ride the biggest wave, for the rest of us to see where dry land could be. To give a very simplistic example, it will be usually easier for a child of a family of sailors to succeed in sailing than a child of a family of lute players, or vice versa. Intergenerational inheritance and the epigenetic effects of a supportive environment are constantly operating on an extraordinary person’s life. One cannot exist without the other.

To be part of world history is Grace. A truly amazing grace. “In God We Trust” is minted on American coins; “Inshaallah” (or God Willing) is marked on Muslim leaders.

The Nobel Peace Prize Laureate for 2006, Mohammed Yunnus of Bangladesh, practiced barakat, with or without him knowing it. Using his own personal wealth, knowledge and wisdom, he went back to his poverty-stricken homeland to introduce a micro-financing scheme for Bangladeshi women. The deep reason for the poverty was neither poor soil nor military harassment; it was a patriarchal culture that stifled the potential of women. Mohammed liberated the women from this insidious culture by lending money exclusively to them, not to their husbands who would most likely mismanage it. With it they bought cows they grew and whose milk they sold in the market. Some bought plows to till the soil, and the benefits of their hard work empowered the women and their families, instantly improving their lives on all levels: physical, psychological, spiritual, and economic.

Yunnus is hardly an ordinary man. It could be mind-boggling how a person as endowed with wealth and power as he was could have such compassion for his fellowmen, and such compassion is not ordinary. It is grace. With grace, a person becomes fit to lead. Unfortunately, electoral processes, which were initially developed with the pure intention of representing the people’s will, have since become so warped that they have instead weeded out people blessed by amazing grace and nurtured the people blessed by amazing money and power.

Fortunately, however, the enlightened man, aware of the failure of the electoral process, shares his grace through means other than political. And in Muslim Philippines, the actions of a mere handful of powerful people in the central government can spell life or death for the future of barakat. For instance, a powerful leader that continues to appoint warlords-turned-politicians in a town where private citizens have been practicing barakat can quickly diminish the gains of barakat. These leaders were appointed by the central government, not chosen by the people, which explains why they rule with such brute force, not with the effortlessness and lightness of touch that comes with true grace.

In 1996, my Aba, a beautiful human being who I believe to have possessed an amazing grace, started developing a piece of property that lay directly in the path of two warring families. For a long time, the An Noor community in Indanan, Sulu was a place that drew residents, Muslim and non-Muslim, from all over Mindanao. The endless blue waters of the Sulu sea, the mangroves, the movements of the gentle Sama people that built houses on stilts close to the property, all inspired Aba to make Paradise on Earth a reality for the community, achieved without any government support. On Fridays, residents went to the little bamboo mosque to pray, and helped each other run errands. Mango trees and yellowbells bloomed, and an ancient banyan tree by the water’s edge witnessed much drama, love and laughter happening under its shade.

But the Universe had other Plans, and when our house was bombed during a particularly tumultuous period in Sulu’s modern history, the family moved to higher ground and did not come back for a spell. My brother has since begun picking up the Pieces that will make An Noor worthy of its brilliant name again, but it will be a long time before a full peace can be restored.

Maybe someday, Inshallah, paradise on earth will become a reality once more in my father’s homeland.

Or perhaps, paradise is already underway as I end this essay.